Andrew Bird - The Mysterious Production of Eggs
As someone whose autobiography could easily be titled The Gluttonous Consumption of Bacon, I truly appreciate the imagery invoked by the name of Andrew Bird's latest album, The Mysterious Production of Eggs. And while it fails to unravel such mysteries as the fertilization of Jodie Foster (in the immortal words of Nigel Tufnel, "Best left unsolved, really."), it still manages to captivate the listener from beginning to end. Once again, Bird proves to be a multi-talented virtuoso, who is without a doubt the greatest whistler to come down the pike since Klaus Meine.
The tone of The Mysterious Production of Eggs deftly alternates between delicate ("Masterfade"), bombastic ("Fake Palindromes"), debonair ("Skin Is, My") and menacing ("Banking on a Myth"), thanks to a myriad of brilliantly complex arragements. Though the music is what calls you in, the lyrics are what keep you coming back for more. Bird's nimble wordplay ("They run you hot and cold like a rheostat -- I mean, a thermostat") adds depth to the rich texture that permeates this album. When he sings (in "Sovay"), "I was gettin' ready to threaten to be a threat," all I keep thinking is how he's woefully underestimating himself. This is an eggstremely serious contender for album of the year.